


She’s just a girl, his wife

by consumedly



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Arranged Marriage, F/M, Marriage Law Challenge, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-02-23 02:03:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23970598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consumedly/pseuds/consumedly
Summary: A marriage law is unavoidable and then it happens.
Relationships: Gideon Prewett/Tracey Davies
Kudos: 4





	She’s just a girl, his wife

**Author's Note:**

> I'll say it. I'll admit it at last. I'm partial to the marriage law challenge. I love it! And this pairing was my excuse to write a short ficlet while trying to get my muse to cooperate again. If you like rarepairs you'd check out rarepair-shorts over at lj or dreamwidth!
> 
> This fic is not edited, but if you'd like to edit it for me ;) just leave me a line!

Being a war hero gives you scars, nightmares, dead brothers and apparently a young and nimble wife every once in a while.

Just because more than half of your population dies in the span of thirty some years it doesn’t give you the right to mess with people's lives. It shouldn’t even be a possibility, but here they are five years after the second wizarding war signing betrothal contracts and pre-bonding arrangements left and right. What should have been at least somewhat happy occasion had unfortunately ended up being dictated by the ministry misery fest more often than not.

He isn’t mad at the children per say, he is somewhat incensed, really. They are scampering around doing nothing, but stir more trouble for the rest of them. Were all of the youth since the dawn of time this naive he wonders, was he? The children, the lauded war heroes were trying to organize themselves, hoping to get the law repealed, he could have told them don’t bother. He almost did a couple of times while listening to their plans in his sister’s kitchen. He knew how it would play out, they were going to get them, the more quiet would fall first, then then the rest would follow. It has happened before and will happen again. Gideon knew his history.

And he is right, of course he is , he watches the so called resistance get frustrated, tired, frustrated, angry, tired, desperate. The last to fall were Ron’s friends, of course they are, but they did fall just as anyone else. He watches as Harry marries into the Parkinson’s and Hermione weds that Flint boy. As ministry dictated marriages went those were not that bad.

Gideon’s own bride has been in Ron’s year. She was young, and beautiful, and probably has once upon a time been full of dreams, at least one of them featuring another husband. He wonders if she is relieved he is older and would possibly know what awaited them, or if she is scared shitles because he is.

He tries to welcome her, the best way he knows how in the silence of his ancestral home. He used to be funny once, in another life really. Now he’s just existing and contemplating how much Molly would miss him if he decided to live in- Paraguay. It would be different enough, maybe even far away enough for the memories to not bother coming with him.

Gideon decides to stay, because Molly is still his little sister and her brood is all he has left. And Paraguay is nice enough, but well- it’s not near british enough for him anyway. What was he thinking.

Molly clears out the room next to his and declares it ready. He’s unsure what ready constitutes of, because this room looks anything but ready to him. However his sister is a mother and she would know what his child-bride would need, if not want.

It turns out Tracey loves to read and rather likes the daybed in the library near the window. They drink, he’s sure she’s drinking tea and he’s definitely not, while reading every afternoon from four to six while wasting their precious time to get to know each other.

She is shy, her smile is waning and she wears visual aid. He wonders if she’s halfblood and stumbled into Slytherin unprepared for the Belatrix of her time and how did she manage to survive her. He wonders how she managed to survive the war at all with those fragile lenses that should help her perceive the realities of the world. He wonders how she sees him.

She tastes like mint and smells like- something. He’s not sure he likes it.

Their wedding night isn’t one at all, or the second or the third. He is curious how much time the ministry would give them before intruding in their beds. Percy tells him it won’t be long and he is right, as usual. Of course he is, he’s Molly’s son.

There is a short, bald man in his parlor telling him that he understands his hesitancy, but implors him to not prolong the consummation any longer. There are many words most of them stupid and Gideon tries to pretend he forgets them as soon as they are spoken.

Later that night he asks Tracey over dinner if she will be ready to accept him. They aren’t ready, they are strangers.

His wife, she’s as fragile as her glasses, and he is gentle and tries to be good, to be patient. Her body is soft, her breath hitches at the right places, and she bleeds.

The next morning he wakes up in cold sweat and almost strangles her.

He’s an auror. A soldier. She’s just a girl his wife.

The next night he sleeps alone, and the next, and the- It takes more than a week, a visit from her mother, until she’s back in the marital bed. It takes time, but she relaxes; her flesh, her heart, they yield and accept him.

A marriage is hard, he knows, as are feelings. She slaps him multiple times and Gideon collects her from his sister’s guestroom more than once in the first year. There are not enough slytherins, rather a thousands hufflepuffs invading his space and he dislikes them. Also welcomes the hoard and not only because she smiles more when they’re trapesting around his gardens.

They cuss, and smile, and fight, and laugh. It’s invigorating, terrifying really the way he learns to live again.


End file.
